turfiness of the forest-glades, since glades are not all turfy; and why should he circumambulate the vocabulary for another couplet, to talk in harsher diction about glades of turf, lest there should be a mortal, whose ear was so whimsically 'constructed, that it could not endure the epithet turfy? How was he to divine a possibility so improbable? You are, in truth, a very presbyterian as to language, “blaspheming custard and plumbporridge."

Alterations in pretty verses; made in the paroxysms of the toothach, were not likely to be worth much, and you are welcome to shoot them out of existence with the arrows of your wit. I always considered yearning as a stronger expression, but synonymous to longing. I know it is a scriptural phrase; but I did not know, till you informed me, that it had an inseparable connecticn with the abdominal fiddle-strings.

Spence's rules for the fabrication of poetry are good; but when he applies them to criticising particular passages, he blunders horribly. Some two months since, Sir James Lake recommended to my attention Spence's Dissertation on the Odyssey. Till then, I knew not of its existence This request has led me into the composition of a critical tract, which covers seventeen sheets of

looks, has very distinct perceptions of genius
in others; our nabob of lively records, and his
relation, Colonel Barry of Worcester, whose mi-
litary exertions have had eclat; who, in early
youth, succeeded the unfortune André in an ad-
miring passion for Honora Sneyd; and, after his
sad fate, succeeded that gallant officer in his ap-
pointments in America; who has studied politeness
from Chesterfield, poetry after our best critics,
and moral philosophy and style after Johnson;-
friends at my
met your
little sup-

these
personages
per. The evening was Attic.

Mr Saville being last week at Birmingham oratorios, I could not have the pleasure of introducing him to Mr. and Mrs Piozzi; but, as they desired me to bring any of my friends in the afternoon, I took his timid Philomela in my hand. Never had Mr Piozzi two beings of his audience who were more charmed with his perfect expression on his instrument, and with the touching and ever-varying grace with which he sings. Surely the finest sensibilities must vibrate through his frame, since they breathe so sweetly through his song, though his imperfect knowledge of our language prevents their appearing in conversation. I am sure he values, as he ought, the honour and happiness he has obtained, of which the elegances of wealth, and the blessings of independence,

form the smallest part. He seemed much pleased with Mrs Smith's voice, and the melting sweetness of her manner in singing, amidst all the disadvantages of her timidity.

Your letter has this moment reached me.' I am concerned for your late illness, and fear that your life is less tranquil, and your sympathy more keen than suits the delicacy of your constitution. Mrs Siddons' and Mrs Jackson's unhappiness have grieved you. That of the former I hope is past. May the life, above all others, precious to Mrs Jackson, and which, when you wrote, hung in fearful balance, have, ere this time, preponderated on the vital side!—that it may not be her fate, "like the weak and widowed vine,

"To wind her blasted tendrils o'er the plain !"

I cannot help being glad that Sophia's London scheme is, at last, realized, whatever clouds and shadows rest upon it. Time, hope, will disperse them, and cheerfulness, that sun of the mind, gild the long wish of her heart, metropolitan society. She is certainly more formed for that than to muse in silent glades, and court the sylvan pleasures she will not say, apostrophising them,

"O! take me to your haunts again,

The rocky spring, the greenwood's shade!"

Autumn is now gilding them with her last smiles. Adieu!

LETTER LXXIV.

WM. HAYLEY, Esq.

Lichfield, Oct. 6, 1787.

THE teasing demon of petit ill-luck, which so frequently presides over my speeches, has, it seems, raised a mist over your recollection also; so that you cannot direct my search where to find, amid the bright mazes of your compositions, that beautiful compliment you certainly have somewhere paid to our great architect. Thus am I doomed to the vexation of having excited the most flattering of all ideas in the breast of an amiable man, without the possibility of gratifying it.

t

A friend in Shropshire has lately shewn me the wonders of Colebrooke Dale We passed a fine autumnal day in exploring the features of that scene, where we find, in such uncommon union,

the dusky, noisy, assiduous, and indeed stupendous efforts of art, with romantic nature;-where the Cyclops usurp the dwellings of the Naiads and Dryads, and drown, with their dissonance, the woodland song; light their blazing fires on each of the many hills, and, with their thick black smoke, shroud, as with a sable crape, the lavish woods and fantastic rocks; sully the pure waters of the Severn, and dim the splendour of the sum mer's sun; while the shouts of their crouding barges, and the clang of their numerous engines, din through every winding of the valley. In short, we there saw a town, noisy and smouldering, and almost as populous as Birmingham, amidst sylvan hills, lofty rocks, and meandering waters. You have heard of the lately-discovered bituminous fluid, distilling through the subterraneous cliffs. We found the iron bridge very stupendous in the art of its construction, and very beautiful in the grace and lightness of its appearance—but it is represented so exactly in the prints, as to leave the eye little to acquire by actual contemplation. I am become acquainted with Mr and Mrs Piozzi. Dr Johnson told me truth when he said she had more colloquial wit than most of our literary women. It is indeed a fountain of perpetual flow; but he did not tell me truth when he asserted that Piozzi was an ugly dog, without